


For Science

by realjane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Completely confident Hermione, Coworkers - Freeform, Draco is repressed, F/M, Mutual Pining, Only One Bed, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, just complete trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27584284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realjane/pseuds/realjane
Summary: Hermione wants to climb her Auror partner like a tree, and she has to win a bet... two sexually repressed partners, one small bed, one... disturbance. It's a recipe for the perfect science experiment.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 21
Kudos: 385
Collections: LU





	For Science

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pink_wednesdays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_wednesdays/gifts).



> I own nothing. Truly... I don't even own the tiny bed and breakfast in Ireland.
> 
> This is just... pure trash, pure smut. What can I say? Sometimes you just need to write dirty, silly smut. I'm trash. That's all!
> 
> This is a SURPRISE!! *sparkle, sparkle* for my alpha reader, Pink-Wednesdays, the absolute Queen of Smut. She deserves all good things, mostly because she puts up with me deciding to start a second WIP of a completely different genre and tone. So patient. So delightful.
> 
> I don't know. Enjoy! ;)

There is no mistaking the position that she wakes in; eyes bleary as the light of the moon creeps in from the window, she can just make out the arm nestled against her breasts, and the tree trunk of a leg wrapped over hers. The room is a bit stuffy, and his skin is warm. So is the part of him at her lower back, which twitches when she attempts to pull away. She’s trapped in the arms of her fellow Auror, in the tiniest bed which could only have been meant for a child, in a quaint bed and breakfast in the Irish countryside, on the way to investigate why the entire population of sheep in three consecutive counties have  _ suddenly  _ become carnivorous, and he is most notably aroused. 

They hadn’t gone to bed that way. Instead, they had both laid on their backs, shoulder-to-shoulder, with the agreement that neither would thrash about in their sleep if they could help it. But Hermione has  _ always  _ been a side sleeper, and he  _ is  _ a good deal larger than her in general; sleeping like two anchovies in a tin proved to be all the easier spooned up like this, or at least it had, before the addition of the arousal. 

All because she had conveniently  _ forgotten _ to make a reservation at their normal point of contact in Ireland, leaving them to take a bed in the only available inn for a hundred miles, and the  _ only  _ open room the bed and breakfast had available had a twin-sized bed. Oopsie. 

_ Guess we’ll have to share, _ they had said, simultaneously. 

Just the  _ three _ of us, Hermione says to herself.

She has been  _ aware _ of his endowments before; his pants give no illusions with the way they cup him, in all the right ways. But she has never… encountered it. So to speak. But.  _ It’s  _ there. Poking her spleen, well not  _ poking-- _ jabbing, more like. Sort of… rubbing into her spine.

She can ignore it, for now. It’s not like she hasn’t felt a penis before. Every second person in the world has one. Obviously Draco Malfoy is not unique in that. He’s got a penis, and the empirical evidence has presented itself. Now that she has met it in person--well, by proxy, I mean could one really consider oneself  _ acquainted  _ with a penis after only feeling it through several layers of fabric? That’s not really a personal look. A proper introduction requires the shaking of hands. It just so happens that she has particular investment in the well-being of  _ this _ penis, and the man to whom it is attached.

“Must you wiggle?” He huffs against her hair. 

She peeks at him over her shoulder. “I’m not exactly comfortable.”

“Tough.” 

“We could sleep back to back--”

“Won’t work.’

“We haven’t even tried.”

“And we won’t be. Shut your eyes.”

“How do you know it won’t work if you haven’t tried it?”

He says nothing in response. She realizes that she feels the warm puff of his breath on the back of her neck and something in the pit of her stomach begins to coil. 

Ah. Familiar. Nothing out of the ordinary, just biological reasoning at play. Things happen to her body, all the time. Never mind the ache between her thighs-- _ it happens. _ It’s expected. In the presence of this man, parts of her body take on new qualities. If there were a file of all the things that she noticed her body doing because  _ Draco Malfoy did x _ , it would be thicker than all sixty-eight editions of Hogwarts: A History in her possession, stood end-to-end, including the copy in Portuguese, the one she accidentally dropped in the Black Lake (which must always be stored  _ open _ or the pages will crumble), and the large print. 

For example: when he argues and his eyes flare silver. That makes her knees buckle. Knuckles flexing around his wand? Her nipples pebble. Fingers tangled in his hair in exasperation? Her mouth runs dry. She’s yet to see him really let loose, but just the  _ idea _ makes her uterus do a quadruple backflip.

Pansy doesn’t think she can do it.  _ He doesn’t date anymore. He’s practically a monk.  _

_ With a very respondent member, _ but Pansy either left that part out or she didn’t know. And Pansy was not the sort of friend to leave out such a detail. Which was comforting, in its own way.

Now seems as good a time as any to square up their bet, given… well, Given Everything. Hermione is going to approach it as she would any conundrum: with a little applied science, and one hypothesis:

He will break. Just… piss him off a little.

It’s  _ all  _ science. Just like the erect penis, jabbing her in the spleen, and the hot breath on her neck, making her stomach all jumbly, and the knickers which are absolutely demolished… it’s not unexpected around Draco Malfoy. It’s just  _ science. _ Seduction is about Biology, a little Chemistry. Science, science, science. She cants her hips backwards to see what will happen to her body next, and to his.

“You’re in dangerous waters.” Draco adjusts his arm so it’s caged her around the waist, and then his breath hitches. 

“You’re grumpy,” she whispers with a pout. His palm flattens against her stomach in warning. Her bare stomach. Further study might be required but she  _ thinks _ she feels her inner walls flutter. Yes… it demands experimentation. What  _ really _ is happening down there? 

It couldn’t possibly be that she hadn’t had a sexual relationship in three years, and that every single moment she’s in the presence of this man she fantasizes about climbing him like a tree, and so the combination makes for a heady addiction to pissing him off because  _ at least _ he’s giving her attention. It’s a never-ending cycle of experiments, in which she tests what habits bring her the most interesting responses from her subject. She squeezes her glutes and his penis twitches in response. Success! Isn’t experimentation divine? Commence the official seduction investigation!

_ Experiment number one: what will he do if one points out that his penis is particularly erect? _

“It’s jabbing me,” she says matter-of-factly.

_ “What?” _

“Does it hurt?” she asks innocently. The wall of man behind her rumbles in warning. “I mean. Once  _ must  _ wonder if it would--being that it’s an outward appendage--well, if having that appendage constricted between oneself and another person would be painful, or just merely uncomfortable. Wouldn’t one?”

The tone of the air crackles. He is fuming, now--his joints always lock up when his short fuse is triggered, and his elbow crushes her ribs like a vice. He uses his available hand (the one on her stomach previously) to push himself up above her, so he looms over her with those flashing eyes (cue her trembling knees). He speaks slowly, choosing every word deliberately. 

“Did you just refer to my cock as an  _ appendage?” _ Aha. Growly, half-asleep voice, warning tone… definitely makes her toes curl. Not good enough. Must do another sample.

_ Experiment two: how does Auror Malfoy respond to a particularly condescending tone of voice? _

“What would  _ you  _ call it?” She glances downward. “Has it a  _ name?” _ She can’t  _ see _ said appendage, but the suggestion is enough to make him roll off the bed, pitching himself onto the floor by accident, and recovering by standing, in just his pants, with his back to her. 

“What is  _ wrong  _ with you?” he seethes in the darkness. 

“Careful,” she tuts. “You could injure it. Gods! What a disadvantage you’re at! I can’t imagine having to always guard my front. It’s a wonder the penis-havers are ever in charge. You’re vulnerable.”

“It’s not a  _ disadvantage--” _

“I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“Gods!” He flails behind himself for something, but can’t seem to find what he’s looking for. He finally holds out his hand firmly. “Pillow.”

She sighs to herself. “You don’t have to cover yourself! Honestly, I’m a scientist. I’m not bothered.”

“I’m sleeping on the floor,” he says softly. “In the morning, we’re going to pretend like this conversation  _ never  _ happened.” 

Hermione places his pillow in his palm and he chokes the fabric in a death grip the moment he finds purchase. Sure enough, he lays down on the rug, after pummeling the pillow into some shape resembling a cushion that  _ isn’t  _ made of three layers of goose down, and huffs.

_ Experiment failed. Subject has removed themselves from the laboratory. Must entice them back again. _

Okay. Time to reassess. Same goal. New tactic.

She rolls until she’s hanging over the edge of the bed. His shoulder is within reach, and he’s quite obviously staring at the far wall. For science reasons, she tugs her nightie until it pools at her waist, and in the name of scientific research, lets the strap fall off her shoulder. Then, she reaches for his elbow. He flinches at first, but doesn’t shrug her off.

Hmm.

_ Experiment three: how does Draco Malfoy respond to outer stimulus? _

“You don’t have to be embarrassed, Draco,” she murmurs. She leaves a trail of goosebumps in her wake as her fingers dance up his arm. “Least of all with me.”

“This conversation is inappropriate between partners,” he insists, but he sounds strangled, like he doesn’t quite believe it himself. She sighs, stilling her ministrations at his shoulder.

“But if I wasn’t here, what would you do? Would you… take care of that? Touch yourself?”

Hermione lets her finger fall down his back, across his shoulder blades, and with the gentlest swing of her arm, trace the entire length of his spine. He shivers. So does she. In the inspection of his skin, she meditates on her findings:

_ Two _ subjects, now. Both aroused. One starving. One choking. What would happen… 

She tucks her fingers into the band of his briefs, just letting the points of her nails prickle at the base of his spine. He groans involuntarily. 

And what if… 

She works her way, crawling her fingers just beneath the waist band, but to the crease of his hip. His hand catches her there, stilling the experiment for a moment. 

“Show me.” She curls her fingers into his and squeezes. “Who will know?”

_ Experiment four: will Malfoy give in? _

From the edge of the bed, she’s close enough to hear him take a sharp intake of breath at the suggestion, and he stalls. Just for a second. Then, he unfurls her hand, willing her fingers to relax. And he presses it on his stomach. And he grasps her wrist, and lets her nails tickle the skin above his waistband. And he doesn’t look at her, but he lets her feel where the tip of his erection threatens to burst from his pants. Then, he lets go.

She does a quick personal inventory as her hand falls across his body, unaided by his guidance any longer. Hmmm… Knickers? Wet. Fingers? On fire. Knees? Numb. Control? Who is she, never met her. 

She takes his hand (which proves difficult, considering that he  _ is _ on the floor, but less so because he has long orangutan arms, but more so because he’s muscular and not at all  _ bendy, but less so  _ because he lifts his arm to help her) and tugs. 

Very carefully, and with great pains not to move in haste, he turns over on his back. And instead of focusing on patient zero, the gentleman tented within the confines of poly-cotton boxer briefs, Hermione stops to reflect.

_ Yes, like any true scientist, I recognize that the search for discovery is more important than the specificity of a solution, but faced with the discovery that perhaps Draco Malfoy is not immune to me any more than I am to him, and with full recognition that this man could use an orgasm, I have elected to change the trajectory of the experiment. _

_ And make him do the work. _

So, she makes him touch her. 

First her thigh, with his massive hand cupped across her perched hip, and then at her waistband. And then, she holds the fabric out from her body, and releases it. Before the fabric can snap against her skin, his fingers are curled around the elastic like he’s keeping her from falling over a cliff. And he sits up, teeth bared. She doesn’t expect it, but he tugs, severing the elastic and lace, and flings the offending fabric over his shoulder. The bite of the fabric is brief and the shock of the liberation of her knickers makes her eyelids flutter shut.

Well. Consider the rubber band snapped.

_ In the absence of control, the subject will rend personal property without preamble,  _ she notes, as he leans forward. His gaze holds hers--silver, of course--and he kisses the crease of her hip with the same softness that she had touched his, despite looking like he could very well take a large bite of her.

“Were you dreaming about me?” she whispers, for science, Queen, and country. 

“I always--” kiss. “Always--” Flicker of tongue. “Always--” Nose to hip and fingers migrating to her inner thigh… “Always wake, having dreamed of you.”

“Do you always wake up with a  _ raging  _ hard on?” She grazes his cheek. He nips at her fingers, catching one between his teeth and suckling until her eyes roll back in her heads. Now  _ here’s _ a scientist.

He releases her finger with a pop and nips her thigh, sending a shock of awareness to her core. “How often am I on time to our morning brief?”

“Oh! Never,” she breathes. He smiles into her leg and nudges her to roll on her back. As she does so, he crouches beside her and reaches beneath the bed for something. He returns from his excursion with his wand, which he tucks under the hem of her nightie. And he flicks his wrist. And the fabric rends. And with both hands, he severs the silk, from hem to neck, with one fluid yank. 

Hermione doesn’t have a meter in order to read just  _ what _ her body does, but if she has to guess, she experiences her first (and by Merlin’s blue balls, it better not be the last) orgasm with Draco Malfoy, just because he split her nightie up the front. His fingers investigate if this is the case, by finding her swollen clit and clocking how it thrums with her racing heartbeat.

“My morning routine is vigorous.” He ebbs the bundle of nerves with practiced surety, and not at all like past partners under whom she has suffered much mediocre scientific research, no--this man knows where the clitoris is. And that recommends him highly. Especially because he has figured out that hers is particularly responsive. 

“What do you think about when you touch yourself?” she asks. He tugs her knees open and curls his hand so he can stroke her wetness. With a deftness of a former Seeker, he catches both her wrists and pins them above her head with just one hand. He’s gruff and abrupt, and  _ that _ is most certainly fine with her body.

“Fingering you under the table during a hearing. Stuffing my cock down your throat while you hide under my desk.” He enters her with two fingers and the stretch is so much that she arches off the bed. “Fucking you over the piano at the Manor--”

She giggles. “Have you seen  _ Pretty Woman--?” _

“Being the first one to take your pretty arse.”

She smiles at him and shakes her head. “Not the first.”

Draco growls territorially. “Then I’ll find  _ something  _ you’ve never done, smart-mouth.” He pumps his hand furiously into her. She keens, every nerve in her body is on fire and exploding and it’s not enough, and it’s way too much, and then he yanks her to the edge of the bed. Her feet drop over the side and he’s already winding a thin rope around each ankle from the end of his wand. With a flick, her legs are stretched between bed posts. “I think of a lot of ways of shutting up those perfect lips,” he admits, settling at her feet.

“Like?” Her thighs tremble and he lifts her hips off the mattress, and she wails because his tongue knows where her clit is too, and he is so intent on tasting her, on giving her--no, not giving,  _ taking from her _ everything that he can, that she’s almost forgotten about his straining dick.

“What I always come back to, when I’m getting off,” he says softly, curling his fingers inside her cunt, “is that your bloody mouth makes me crazy, but--” he worries her clit between his lips-- “I would rather test your ability to stay quiet, and fuck you in a place you’re not supposed to talk, than gag you, and  _ ever  _ lose the pleasure of hearing you moan.”

“You must think about this a lot,” she laughs breathlessly. He bites her, just above her hip, and then lavs the sting away. That will be a hickey tomorrow. So.  _ The subject is possessive. _

“I have a list.”

“I didn’t realize you fancied me.”

“Your skirts are  _ very _ tight.”

“You don’t even  _ look  _ at me.”

“I’m. Discreet.”

“You’ve had blue balls for  _ ah!  _ how long now?” 

Draco swears and presses her into the mattress, grinding his cock into her stomach. “Fucking decade,” he murmurs. He stops, then, and stares at her lips like they’re poisonous. His face is so close to hers that she sees every faint muscle twitch and every little dilemma inside his head, and she’s very afraid that the prospect of kissing her has suddenly doused him in a bucket of ice-cold regret… but he surprises her. His hand spans her throat. He squeezes off her air until her jaw falls open with a gasp. Then, he kisses her.

Any illusion that she’s leading the experiment falls away. He devours her. He doesn’t give her a chance to breathe. He nips and sucks, he chases her tongue, and he takes what he has wanted for a  _ fucking decade _ by his own admission, and  _ thank Merlin I know how to piss this man off. I’m going to make him mad every single day. I’m going to pester him. I’m going to check off every one of those fantasies on his list-- _

She gasps as two things happen at once.

One--her ankles are released from the restraints.

Two--the cock in question, the catalyst for the whole of the research, is nestled against her throbbing core. How he had rid himself of his own pants without breaking contact will remain a mystery akin to the Bermuda Triangle and the existence of BigFoot. But he hikes her knees over his elbows and positions himself.

“Do you want this?” he asks, in such a pleading tone that she smiles, despite being under the delirious spell of his bodily worship.

“Hmmm. I don’t know.” 

Hermione decides that her most favorite thing--maybe the thing that has made two years as his partner, with wet knickers, and even longer knowing how much he hates to be teased  _ so fucking worth it-- _ is the way his eyes turn to coal in desperation. So she creeps her hands up his torso, pausing to remind him that he has nipples (which, as it turns out, are very sensitive), and then rubs the tips of her nails at the base of his skull. His eyes roll back, and his hips tilt back, and his back  _ bucks. _ It was worth twenty galleons to have her nails manicured into burgundy almond points. Pansy was right. Fuck. Now she owed Pansy a tenner. 

She reaches between them and guides him forward. “Why do you think my skirts are so tight?” she asks, as he sinks inside of her, inch-by-inch. “Do you think I enjoy the way it feels to have my legs restrained in silk? Well--” she worries his lip between her teeth. “I do. But. I always hope you’re looking.”

“You wear those heels for me, too?” he breaths. His hip bones clock hers in a frantic snap. It is not gentle, it is not nice, it is perfect and he is a goner. 

“No. Those are for  _ me.” _

“Does standing on knife points make you feel sexy?”

“I am sexy. It’s a fact, not a feeling.” She rolls her hips and draws a groan of agreement out of him. “The stilettos make me feel powerful.”

He cups her jaw in a vice, and she scratches long trails down his back in red welts that will smart the next time he’s under the spray of a shower, and both of them rock with the feeling that they are punishing the other for taking so bloody long to come clean. He fucks her. She wrecks him, for any other woman.

When she casts the contraception spell, hastily shoving a hand between them and sending a shock wave of warmth through her system, he slows his raucous pace. He hikes her legs higher, making their connection tighter, making her constrict around him, taking away her ability to move her hips. He presses the pad of his thumb into the arch of her right foot. An erogenous zone she didn’t know she had. She shudders when his attention moves to the left. And then he folds her in half. And he makes her orgasm so hard, the world goes white. 

Just for a second.

And then he’s coming, too, and his head presses into her sternum, and she checks off her list.

He broke. She pissed him off just enough.  _ Science prevails. _

But… the bet with Pansy feels hollow. Because it turns out… having the best orgasm of your life doesn’t  _ end _ your life, and science requires more than one experiment to prove a theory. So. She’ll have to do some more research about what makes Draco Malfoy lose control. A good scientist wouldn’t settle for just one case study.

And the one thing she didn’t count on?

He’s not pissed off. He’s scooping her up, still joined. He’s turning her so she’s in his lap. He’s kissing her cheeks, her neck, her breasts. He’s touching the parts of her he neglected in his fury. He checks in with her nipples. They approve.

He’s sitting against the headboard, nudging her hips in little circles to take from him. He’s giving her a chance to be in charge. He feels bad for being rough. He’s sorry. He sees her. She’s beautiful. He’s talking. He won’t shut up, his lips are  _ gifted  _ with salutations to her body, and confessions he’s long held buried. He’s a talker.

So, for science, she silences him by sealing her lips over his. Like any good random sample, he gives her new material to work with. 

Draco bends her backwards, kissing his way down her body as she takes from him what she wants. This time, he’s gentle. His fingers apologize for the bruises that will form from his desperate clutches in the morning. His lips murmur compliments against her raised goosebumps. When she comes again, it’s because he has forgotten himself in the equation entirely. He kisses her. He cleans her. He dresses her, in new knickers. And when they settle into the tiny bed once again, like spooning anchovies (and no current, aroused interloper), he eases her back to sleep by soothing little circles into her tight shoulders.

_ Thank you, _ he whispers in the crook of her neck.  _ Thank you. Thank you. _

Oh, she’ll pay Pansy the tenner, alright, she thinks, as consciousness begins to fade. As soon as she remembers why this body--this man, this experiment, this penis (sorry, Draco)--didn’t always feel like a sure thing.

**Author's Note:**

> (This is my 30th story on Ao3. What?! I know.)
> 
> Join me on tumblr to chat at TheSuperJane!


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